


Acts of Contrition

by Metas



Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Human!Alastor, Human!Angel Dust, M/M, Priest!Alastor, Prostitute!Angel Dust, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:35:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metas/pseuds/Metas
Summary: The doors to the small church swung open as a brunette man strides in, a somewhat serene smile gracing his face giving the illusion of someone grinning about a joke they’d just heard.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 238





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd  
> Early apologies for any grammatical errors.

The doors to the small church open silently as a man slides in hesitantly, an unsure frown on his face. He is a man of above average height, a little lanky but the trench coat he has over his suit hides it well. He wears a homburg over blonde hair, shadowing blue eyes that dart nervously around, landing on the confessionals sequestered away on the side of the long row of pews. He pauses in the door way looking to the small bowl holding holy water at the thresh hold of the great hall before dipping his fingers in and making the sign of the cross on his person; Even if he no longer held the faith that was beaten into him as a child he knew the steps and it wouldn’t do to only go in half measures.

Angel had never been a church going kinda guy, hadn’t been to any church in a long time since the death of one of the only blood relatives who genuinely ever cared for him. His mother had been a devout woman, strong in her belief of the Holy Word which she tried to impart on her Son before her passing. For years he’d gone to Catechism as a child on her order that he should have a spiritual connection to the Lord. Funny how it turns out that his lack of it is what’s brought him here today.

He makes his way over to the three doors, looking at the center door in apprehension. The priest was definitely inside the booth; it’s hard to be inconspicuous when asking the hours the man held confession. Angel takes a deep calming breath, approaching the right door and entering. The brunette spoke to hundreds of nameless faceless, people near daily, what’s one more man behind a screen airing his dirty laundry; Even if he didn’t know the laundry was partially his load.

The interior is cramped and dark, designed to keep voices in when telling a person’s deepest darkest secrets. There is a pew placed at the center facing the mesh screen sealed away by a wood panel on the other side where the priest was sitting. Kneeling down on the pew, hands coming together, the blonde has has a scant few moments to reflect on what he’ll say when the panel slides open with a harsh scraping of wood on wood.

“Good Morning” The voice that comes is many things at once: kind, forgiving, understanding, firm, absolute, jovial, tense, contemplative, mischievous. It’s a showman’s voice practiced in many years of speaking to an audience that was far larger than the meager amounts of the public that showed up on a Sunday morning mass.

The things it does to Angel almost makes him miss his cue to speak before he suddenly snaps out of it addressing the man in the darkness behind the mesh. “Good Mornin’, Father” He makes the sign of the cross on his person again, the priest on the other side doing the same in time with his words. “in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, Amen”

The practice and formality of it was a little comforting that the process would inevitably lead you to the next step. There was always a start and end to each part, always begun by the priest that would simply end with the penitent’s response. “What is it you would ask of me on this fine day?”

‘Many things’ is his first thought.

The blonde’s answer is immediate, remembering this part. This is where they get to the heart of the matter, His voice comes out before he can even begin to second guess himself. “I wanna confess, Father”

“Then may the Lord help you confess your sins”

“Amen” Silence fills the confessional as Angel gathers his thoughts, nervous all over again. Five second go by, ten seconds; The priest simply waits patiently, listening to the soft nervous breathes on the other side of the screen non-judgmentally, knowing that it’s hard to admit one’s sins even in the confidence of another sworn to the cloth. “Bless me, Father for I have sinned … I don’t remember when my last confession was …” 

“Father, I’ve committed a grave sin” The blonde clenches his hands together feeling the sour unease crawling in his stomach. He can do this, he’s known the other man for months now; He won’t judge him, hadn’t judged him for all of his past and vices. The man had simply given him a smile and some hopeful words of wisdom. “I … I’ve …” 

“Yes, my boy?” The priest urges him on this time, encouraging the younger man in the following silence that ensues. Angel opens his eyes, looking through the darkened mesh at the vague outline of the man on the other side, he can clearly see the face in his minds eye. He can see the handsome face of the older gentleman of the cloth, brown hair neatly trimmed and simply styled to match rich brown eyes obscured slightly by a pair of rounded bifocals. He can see the welcoming smile that never seemed to drop from the man’s face. 

“I’ve fallen for another man.”

It’s winter in the city of New York and there’s a biting chill rolling through the streets. Flakes of snow had begun to fall from the night sky as the sun set for the day, lightly dusting the near empty streets. There are some homeless huddled together, gathered around a tin of trash they managed to light up to stave off the cold of the unforgiving night. The night ahead was promising to be one of the coldest nights ever recorded in the city and few who had a choice would want to be caught out in the on coming blizzard.

A figure darts down the sidewalk, slipping into the mouth of an alleyway to brace against a wall to try and recover from the bite of the wind. The person is not dressed to be traveling the wintery streets at night, wearing a thin blue button up shirt with sleeves that end at the elbows, a knee length navy skirt over stockings that accentuates their curves more than it does protect from the elements and a pair of high heels clearly unsuitable for walking the iced over streets. Their face is effeminate though tomboyish, pretty even when twisted at a grimace at their current predicament, styled up blond hair falling over one eye. Any one passing by would mark them as a woman if not for the decidedly masculine voice that comes out with a sharp curse as a particular gust of wind causes him to shiver from the bone deep chill.

“Damn it! Of all the nights fer a freak blizzard!...” Angel’s been walking these dark streets since he was a young teen; He should have known better than to stay out late to ‘work’ but his rent’s about due and he’s low on funds to keep himself fed let alone sheltered. Huffing out a cloud into frozen dusk air the blond thinks now’s about a good time as ever to head back home, noting sullenly he’d come pretty far out for nothing.

With his arms around his shoulders he quickly trudges against the wind towards his part of town, cursing his luck all the way as the snow begins to noticeably pile. It’s not his first night trudging through uncomfortable conditions, the blonde has always hated the cold winter months as it has always been bad for business. His official line of work was, as he would call it, a professional creature of the night for the highest bidder. That’s what he would call it, of course, everyone else though would simply call him a prostitute. 

It’s not like he had many options. He basically came here with nothing but the clothes on his back and his good looks.

Before all this Angel has been apart of a small time mob family looking to strike it big with dirty jobs. Jobs in particular that he didn’t agree with, jobs that ended up putting him at odds with his old man and older brother. Not to say he’s the cleanest person in the world, lord knows he’s lived a life of damn near debauchery after he left the house hold and discovered he’d appreciated the company of men. But he drew a line at terrorizing and killing innocent women and children who don’t deserve it just because they belong to the opposition. Even as a common street walker he had more dignity then that kinda thuggery. The only thing he misses from that life is the twin sister he had to leave behind, but he could never taker her with him and offer her a better life than what she had in that household. 

The wind has yet to let up and the lack of feeling in his face and other extremities has him concerned now, trudging through ankle deep snow. He picks up the pace, stumbling a little in the heels he’s wearing. Looking up, the blizzard is getting stronger and he’s not even about halfway back to his apartment complex. He needs to find a place to stay and fast.

The blonde stiffly runs the best he can to a nearby doorway, banging on it loudly “Hello!?” He’s looking up the building at the windows but no lights turn on at his racket. “Hello? Please! I need to get outta this blizzard!” 

Only darkness answers him.

He runs to the next door and again he’s met with silence. He tries the next and the next, the people either ignoring his cries for help or too deep asleep to even hear him. He’s near in a panic trying to find a place to take shelter, running on the fear of death even as his bodily reactions begin to slow. He doesn’t know how much time has passed, but the snow is up to high calves now and he can’t feel his hands when he hits the door in front of him feebly.

Turning away, the blonde leans against the door, dizzily looking out at the dark street manically. His mind registers an intimidating mass of architecture just a short ways away, all Gothic in design with towering spires, nothing like its surrounding neighboring buildings. It’s a church, he briefly acknowledges, they give shelter to the poor and unfortunate, right? Numbly, unaware of even moving, Angel manages to get to the courtyard, an unbroken shiver coursing through him. The man slowly manages to get up the steps to the deep red doors ornate doors, looking like the entry way to hell rather than a temple of prayer. 

He grabs the cold metal of the door handle, trying it first, but of course it doesn’t budge. Pulling his hand away Angel hits the door with less power than he’d intended making a soft thump. His brow bunches and his mouth opens but all that comes out is a soft “he … lp”. The blond doesn’t realize he’s slumping against the door now, The last bit of hope he had gone with his strength. Turning around so he’s leaning on the door his head falls back in defeat letting the cold take him whole now.

It’s not the death he’d ever imagined having. He’d thought he’d die on some experimental drug somewhere else, living it up high on sex and life on his own terms. That he’d become a big shot in his own right or at least the arm candy to some big shot and rub it in the eye of his father and brother. Even if he knew it was hopeless he’d at least thought he’d be able to meet with his twin again and apologize to her for leaving her behind, show her he cared for her still as he did before he left. Cold and alone in the snow was not the guns blazing death he saw for himself.

The more he thinks about it, how this life kept robbing him of things the more bitter he became. Leaning against this door, with nothing but regrets as his life drains away in the cold, a new feeling begins to course through him, warming him briefly as he lifts one foot off the ground. The foot slams into the door behind him, with a loud thump, that seems to echo into the empty hall within. 

“Dammit!” The first is followed by a second, a third, rapid succession of kicks in anger at the unfairness of it all. What had he done to deserve this kind of life? An awkward angle snaps the heel of the shoes flinging it to the side.

Angel finally drops to his knees on the frozen floor. He can’t feel anything anymore, he’s dizzy and sleepy now; It’s not even cold. In his dazed state he would even say he’s comfortably warm now. Just as he begins to lose consciousness he cant help but think how pretty the brown eyes that fill his vision are.


	2. Chapter 2

The doors to the small church swung open as a brunette man strides in, a somewhat serene smile gracing his face giving the illusion of someone grinning about a joke they’d just heard. 

It’s the kind of expression no one would bat an eye at, if anyone ever cared to bat an eye at anyone else these days. However if you looked closely enough, you could tell from the shift of his brown eyes he was nervous and that the smile was strained around the edges, just a little too wide to be genuine.

He was a thin man, of average height, wearing a simple white button up shirt, beneath a deep red pinstriped vest, tucked into brown slacks and black dress shoes; the only thing on his person that would otherwise give away his current state of mind was the slightly skewed black bow tie that had been done in haste that morning. 

His eyes keep traveling the pews noting that despite his hopes there are some people in today, some already kneeling near the front for their morning prayer. There’s a queue lined up for either side of the confessional booth that makes him cringe internally. 

Dipping his hand in the small bowl next to the entry way, he performs the cross on his person, observing that the water didn’t immediately burn his fingers even though he knows that’s not how it really works.

He makes is way over, nodding at a woman that turns to him as he approaches the left door’s queue to await his turn. She eyes his tie for a moment before turning her attentions away from him.

He’d never really been a god fearing man growing up, despite being brought up in the 20s by a single devout catholic mother living on the outskirts of New Orleans. No, as a boy his only real concern of the time was getting his chores done and getting back home in time for dinner. 

He’d went to Sunday school where he learned to read and gone to mass as his mother requested of him, dressed in his best and only suit that he owned, but outside of that he spent most of his time in the heart of the city with a couple local fellas whose names he had long forgotten over time. 

In the city of New Orleans he always enjoyed the sights and sounds of the late day, a loud chaotic mish-mash of people, automobiles and music culminating into what he felt was true example of all things life had to offer. 

Out of all of it he tended to gravitate to the music the most, be it from a live performance on the streets that made many a passerby stop and cheer or from a nearby radio in a cafe where the tantalizing smell of sweet baked goods and spicy dishes would waft over the bustling crowds, tempting a few through its doors. 

His mother didn’t exactly share his sentiments on the matter when he would spend all his time in the city proper; Coming home at “late” hours would have her constantly fretting over what he was doing and whether or not he was getting into some kinda trouble outside of her line of sight. He recalls having been given more lectures, telling him how he should devote himself to the good book over the false temptations of the city night life, than he could remember. 

But as over bearing as she seemed at times with her convictions, he knew that it was just her way of showing concern for her only son, who she was as a mother. He would never have changed her for anything, loving her down to every perceived flaw and beyond. 

He was seventeen, just barely considered a man, when she suddenly fell ill.

The visiting physician said it was just the flu and she’d be right as rain in a couple days give or take a week. He didn’t think much of it at the time, just thinking of how when she was feeling better the first thing he would do would be to take his bike and ride into the city, already eager to hear the music and experience the sights he’d surely miss out on in his absence. 

But she never did get better, after a week went by she was still bed ridden, after the second he nearly throttled the physician who admitted nervously that he didn’t know what was wrong with her. It was his mother who called him away from the poor man, apologizing profusely on his behalf before berating her son for such unkind behavior. 

He left the house unable to look at his mother nor the doctor but a harsh burning turmoil in his heart kept him rooted to the porch. 

On the third he took her measurements to build a casket, the thoughts of city life the furthest thing from his mind. 

Unfortunately they were poor folk, not too uncommon a story among the people in Louisiana, but being poor meant they couldn’t afford her any medicine let alone a check up at a hospital. Instead they would be forced to endure the sickness at their humble abode, waiting it out with as much care as possible with him watching over her as she slept or read or, if she was daring, sing her hymns despite the frequent coughs that would plague her. 

He would often frown at the deep coughs that ripped out of her like her body was trying to expel the sickness within in futility. 

She would swat his arm playfully whenever she saw it though, telling him she never liked his face like that even for her sake, the kind little boy she raised always had a smile on. He had tried to meet her half way but the smile on his face felt more like a grimace. 

As time went on the coughs became more frequent and the songs rarer until one day they stopped all together. With a shaky breath she asked if he would sing for her instead; To sing the hymns of the church that she had been so dearly fond of and so he did. 

He did so with such fervor and conviction for her that his mother laughed in a way she hadn't in weeks, a laugh full of life and love that filled him with warmth. 

He didn’t know the words or flow beyond how he heard her so he felt a little cowed when she laughed at his attempt in trying to mimic the way she sang. However she thanked him, coughing lightly through her calming chuckles. She admitted it was his face, the severe look of concentration that crossed his brow when he started singing that had gotten to her. 

The songs were supposed to express joy and redemption she said, not wind you up tighter than a two dollar watch. 

He recalls giving her a dead pan look in offense when she points at her own smile for emphasis. He tries again, though there’s a small upturn of lips this time when his mother softly hums along side him this time.

It would be the last time he would hear his mother laugh as her health took a sudden downturn. 

In her final days she didn’t have the strength to look at him let alone to ask him but he knew what she wanted when she took his hand in hers, eyes closed but still knowing her boy was there, squeezing gently. He would sing hoping only the large smile on his face was being conveyed through the song and not the tears running down upturned cheeks. 

He could fake it for her.

The brunette watches as the door opens and a man leaves the confessional, nodding to the two of them as he turns and walks towards the back of the church, sitting down at a pew near the front of the stage to await the coming of morning mass. 

The woman in front of him opens the door and heads inside leaving him the sole remainder of the people coming in for confession for the morning. 

He allows himself to quietly hum a song he’d heard on one of his broadcasts, while his hands come together, wringing nervously hoping know one notices who he is, he’s not sure he could handle someone coming up to him and asking about his work.

Which is silly, he thinks belatedly. He’s a radio host, Has been one going on two years now at the start of the decade since his mother died. Few people would recognize him outside of him speaking directly to them anyways. 

No, right now he’s just another nameless faceless person coming in to Sunday morning confession.

When she passed, something inside him passed along with his mother, leaving him numb. But he was unable to mourn for long; Life has a way of either forcing you to move forward or leave you behind. 

Within the month of her passing their land lord had expressed his concern to the boy now living by himself about both his housing as well as his payment of rent. His mother had been the sole provider with him still going to Sunday School to receive some form of education but he hadn’t gone to his classes in a long while. 

Despite his despondence he assured the man with an insincere smile he would find a job to meet the needed monthly payments, he had no where else to go after all.

However, saying he would find a source of income was harder than actually finding one. He managed to start a few jobs here and there, sweeping at a barber’s shop, busing tables at a local diner but they never really lasted more than a few days before he was sent off on his way. 

His apparent mood affecting his work ethic was bad for business they said. By the end of the third week of his search he still hadn’t been able to find a stable job, unsure if he would even have one before the day he needed to pay his land lord would come around. 

But he hasn’t given up hope just yet, his one break comes in the form of an ad in the newspaper seeking a speaker to host an experimental local radio station for news and music.

“So, says here your name is Alastor?” The man sitting across from him is well into his thirties, dressed smartly in a charcoal two piece, blonde hair styled back neatly. He looks up from the folder in he’s holding at the hopeful sitting there nervously wringing his hands. “That’s correct, sir”

“Hm, No prior work experience” The mean tilts his head up, eyeing the young man from head to toe. He can tell just from sight the young brunette is new at this even without looking at the application in the folder. 

He’s too stiff, dressed in what looks to be a hand me down without any real sense of style. He’s not dressed to impress, he’s dressed in desperation. “You able to read, son?”

“Yes, I can sir.” 

Well, the man idly thinks, he’s got that going for him at least. But that response seemed lacking in the enthusiasm for the job he was applying for. “If you don’t mind me asking, What made you come in and apply today?”

The young man’s eyes rarely meet his directly head on, choosing instead to drift around the room only ever looking slightly off to the side maybe accidentally making eye contact but he can never hold it. 

He’s expecting a story maybe, something about how radio inspired him to give it a go or he’d always dreamed of being the one on the other side telling stories to rapt listeners, the kind of thing he’s been hearing all day. “I need the money to pay my rent, sir”

What he gets instead is so candid and blunt that he almost laughs in delight at the break in the monotony of the hiring process. He’d expected as much from the kid walking in, looking so dour he could suck the color out of a rainbow. The response doesn’t yield him any points either, no matter how funny it seemed. 

“Well that’s all fine and dandy, son” Dropping the folder to the table the man, crosses a leg sitting back against his chair, thinking it better to reward the frank answer with another.”But you don’t seem like the kind of person for the job.” 

“You certainly have a voice but I need someone with some energy! Passion!” He emphasizes his point with a clenched fist held up between them. ”Someone who can make the listeners on the other side of that speaker get their minds off of their boring daily lives every single day!”

His face scrunches in distaste, motioning to the young man who looks like he’s taken a mortal blow. ”You look more likely to send listeners into a fit of depression.” 

Alastor looks down at the table, biting his lip at the clear insult. 

He has some sympathy for the kid but he’s just not at all what he’s looking for. “Sorry, kid, but I think we’re about done he-”

“Wait!”

The young man is looking him in the eye now, a look of determination that wasn't there before clear on his face. “I can do it.” It’s more energy he’s seen in the brunette the entire interview and ain’t it interesting what desperation brings out in a man. 

“Just give me a chance to show you.”

The look each other in the eye hard for a moment, before he lifts a hand towards him motioning to proceed. Had he not been watching with his own eyes, he would have never believed the person sitting in front of him was the same person who walked in mere minutes earlier.

Alastor’s head turns as the door to the confessional opens, the woman stepping out prim and proper. She simply passes him by without a word on her way out the door, not even staying for the mass that would be following. 

Not that he could blame her, he didn’t intend to stay around either. Turning away from her he enters the booth, taking a kneeling position at the pew before the screen mesh waiting for the priest to address him. 

He considers his words as delicately as possible as to not cause a panic but get what he has to say off his chest as fast as possible.

The man had some tact. He’d learned to build it up over two years of his career, meeting with rising stars and starlets in the music industry, interviewing some state politicians and even some locals who came on the radio to talk about what street events or fundraisers would be coming to their lively city. 

It’s been a while since he’s felt anything truly genuine enough to be anything more than a passing fancy so he finds, with great irony, that feeling is exactly what has brought him here today.

The wooden panel separating the priest and he slides open smoothly “Good Morning”

“Good Morning, Father” He’s making the sign of the cross even as he’s greeting the priest. “In the name of the father, son and the holy spirit. Amen” The voice sounds old to him, a man age old as an oak who’s heard quite many a sin in his hay day. “What is it you wish of me, My child”

He’s not sure if he should feel more comforted by the thought or apprehensive. “I wish to confess”

“Then may the Lord help you confess your sins”

“Amen” Alastor inclines his head in prayer, both speaking and not speaking to the man behind the small screen mesh. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. My last confession was many years ago”  
He can feel the smile on his face still, wide and unrelenting, his cheeks hurt from the unintended strain but it refuses to drop an inch, tight with tension. “Father, I’ve committed a grievous sin against another”

He doesn’t take a breath, pushing the words that have been weighing on his mind the entire day. “I almost killed a woman last night” The words hang in the air between them in the modest confessional for just a moment before he adds, almost as an after thought “I fully intended to do so”

In the expected silence that follows his admission his thoughts travel back to the previous night, vivid in his minds eyes. Whispered words over a candle lit dinner, shared smiles and half lidded eyes, the soft tittering laughter of his companion when he compliments her for the umpteenth time that evening. There’s a liveliness there that catches his eye, the sheer joy she wears naked on her face; The facsimile he wears paling in comparison like a torch before the light of the sun. He envied it, craved it, hungered for it. 

“I am sorry”

The priest who had been silent finally speaks up “No, do not apologize. I was just surprised. But … you said almost? You stopped yourself?” Alastor knew the reaction he would have received, but the silence still proved to be as much of a punch to the gut as it would have been at seventeen. It’s been a long time since he felt anything except the deep hollow emptiness in his chest, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t able to feel the shame rolling through him as his choices began to catch up wit him.

He nods, answering vocally when he remembers the priest can’t see him “Yes...” The pair had strolled drunkenly back to his humble abode on the outskirts of the city. Long since fixed up with the well paying income he had been receiving from being the city’s more prominent radio host. They’re all over each other when they enter, though if he seems a little less enthused than she is, she’s none the wiser for it.

He carefully guides them to the den of the house where he pulls away with a soft chuckle laying her on the couch, placing himself next to her and the side table where he kept his hunting knife, brushing a lock of blonde hair from her face with the back of his knuckle. She croons lowly, leaning into the soft touch against her pale flushed skin. The woman is well beyond intoxicated, eyes closed just enjoying the moment unaware of the imminent danger as his smile just becomes darker with desire. She was so defenseless and pure, he idly thought, using his free hand to reach behind him and grab for the hunting knife. He wanted to partake.

“Can you tell me why?”

Knife behind his back, tension began to run through him, white and hot as she continues to hum unaware of his intentions. He’s about to strike when her eyes open landing on him, either too intoxicated or sleepy to see the near wild look in his eye now. She takes his hand in both of hers with a soft smile holding it to her cheek still. He’s holding his breath, knife clenched so tight in his grip trying to keep the hand she has in hers relaxed.

“Sing to me” she had said.

“I couldn’t do it … I still feel it, that want … But in that moment...”

It was sudden, like a flame blown out by a gust of wind. The cold left him bereft and empty as he looked the inebriated woman in the eye, his face locked into a smile that was purely out of habit by now. She was still so full of life, but he knew it wasn’t his to take greedily for himself, he would get no satisfaction by ending it. He knew it was wrong.

“I was wrong”

This woman so weak before him had a passionate streak in her that seemed so subdued now that it almost seemed wrong to him. And so, blade in hand, he sang.

Alastor is dimly aware of the sweat on his brow, the stiffness in his legs from holding his position for so long. “What should I do, Father?”

The priest is quiet for a long while, Alastor waiting with baited breath. He allows his clasped hands to ease from the whitened grip, trying to calm the beat of his heart while he awaits for the man to pass judgment on him. When he next speaks the father speaks with conviction and fervor in the space between them, indicating how dire he means to be.

“My child, take these words to heart, only the Lord can help you, devote yourself to Him fully and in time He will help you over come any obstacle. That will be your penance.”

He feels lost, it’s not a direct answer or solution to any of his dilemmas. His stomach curls sourly at the uncertainty the future holds. With a shuddering breath, Alastor nods once. “Yes, Father” 

“Now say the Act of Contrition”

Alastor bows his head once more. “Lord God, in your goodness have mercy on me” 

The year is 1932 when the city of New Orleans gives a sad farewell to their favored radio host. He was a bright youthful man who was never without a smile, charming, witty but at the same time troubled and solitary. 

“Do not look on my sins, but take away all my guilt.” 

Some speculate as to why he left, some guessing he had a secret child with one of his interviewees who he had a passionate one night stand with while they were in town, others suspect a lovers spat. The one person who ever got close to him said that while charming, he seemed distant, cutting himself off from her after a romantic evening where he serenaded her on his couch. His boss bitterly thinks that maybe he left for bigger better job opportunities, the young man having refused his offer to triple his salary just to keep him on board.

“Create in me a clean heart and renew within me an upright spirit.“

Alastor opens his eyes to the dark room, still kneeling at the pew, hands clasped together in prayer. He’d heard something, he swears he did. Coming to a stand, he brings his foot up, to move the knee rest back in to place behind the pew. He looks around the darkened church but finds nothing out of place in the great hall, it's all eerily still and quiet that he simply brushes it off as his imagination. It’s howling outside and the chill manages to seep into his robes as he begins to walk towards the hall leading to the dormitories intending to bundle up.

Suddenly a series of bangs causes him to jerk around towards the large door way of the church entrance. He moves swiftly knowing someone is out there, caught in the blizzard, pulling a ring of keys from beneath his robes and opening the door to a blast of snow in his face. He looks around with squinted eyes until at last they land on a slumped figure, a woman he idly notes, against the other doorway.

“Oh dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos and comments! I really appreciate it and am happy you enjoy the story so far!.  
> I'm sorry about the jumbled history, I was trying to make it flow as best as I could but sometimes it got away from me.


	3. Chapter 3

Angel tosses and turns uncomfortably, his skull is pounding and it’s too hot, letting out a groan of discomfort. His arms feel restrained and it’s hard to take a breath without letting out a deep cough that wracks his frame with pain. He lets out a whimper trying to escape his confines, heart beat pounding into his ears over the sound of a door opening; Eyes opening to nothing but blurs, shutting tightly against the dim light that sends a shock of pain through his skull. He doesn’t know where he is or whats going on, mind blindly where Molly and his Moms could be right now.

A cool soft palm lands on his head as the covers are pulled back, letting the air make contact with his bare collar bone. A soft voice gently shushing him and whispering reassurances. He doesn’t want to risk opening his eyes again, the pain before was too much. Instead the blonde tries his best to lean into the cool touch at his head, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. 

Letting out a weak shuddering breath, Angel feels the hand running through his hair, gently easing the pain with every pass. 

“There now, Dear boy, It will be alright. Shhhh” He’s sniffling now when he can finally distinguish that the voice isn’t that of his mothers nor sister. It’s certainly not Arackniss, too deep for the older boy who hadn’t yet hit puberty and the other would never have laid a hand on him if he could help it even thn. A bloom of faint hope blossoms in his chest as his voice comes out uncertainly.

“D-Dad?”

The fingers in his hair slow but don’t pause in their ministrations as the voice holds for a moment at the question before answering. “Rest now, You’re sick with fever”

Angel tries to open his eyes again wanting to see his father there, but it results in a twist of brow as pain shoots through his skull before his eyes can focus on the vague silhouette in the low warm candle light. “Hurts” He can hear the sounds of the storm howling outside, dimly aware of the blanket that comes back up to cover his shoulders and neck but not aware enough to register his own shakes and shivers.

“Sleep, You need your rest. You will feel better come the morning”

The hand begins to leave his hair, and internally Angel’s nerves jump in panic. He doesn’t realize when his arm shoots up from beneath the covers, grabbing onto the robbed hand that stiffens under his desperate grip. “Stay? Please?”

The silence that follows is long and deafening, so much so that Angel feels like he’s about to retract his hand and cry. It’s stupid, he thinks, hoping the other would stay to comfort him; He’s a big boy now. When the hand lowers gently back to his hair however Angel feels like he really will cry as a timid relief floods him; Another hand taking his now slack arm and tucking it back beneath the covers. 

“Of course I will”

The blonde’s breaths are thick with withheld emotion as the other continues to lull him back to slumber, gentle fingers caressing his head. He doesn’t know how long it’s been or how much time has passed but he faintly recalls hearing the soft hum of music before he’s drifting back off to a dreamless slumber. Mom would be in hysterics if she could hear Dad now, humming one of her church hymns, is his last coherent thought before the darkness takes him.

The hand keeps caressing the younger man’s scalp for a short while longer before they finally leave again as the robed man stands up looking down on his hand and then the bed’s occupant. 

Alastor felt fortunate having gotten to him in time, any longer in the snow and he would have probably have had to toss him back into the snow just to keep the body from decomposing. Not that he would have minded too much, it’s not unnatural to have a death of one of the unfortunates occur during a blizzard, however having one occur in his church even after he’d took the boy in would very much be an inconvenience.

Alastor averts his eyes when he realizes he had been staring at the blonde’s pale countenance for a while now, quietly leaving the boy to rest in peace. Outside the room the brunette brings both his palms up to his face, rubbing his cheeks and letting out a calming breath, lips upturned rigidly. 

When the howling of the wind and snow finally dies down the sky is an overcast of murky blue; Casting the filtered light of the morning sun through the clouds over the empty streets. The world is waking slowly to a cold new day. Excited, children run out, bundled up warmly to play in the fresh new coat of frost that fell throughout the city overnight. In contrast the adults hug themselves tight to stave off the cold from the safeties of their homes, looking out on the day in mild inconvenience. 

Few notice the huddled snow covered forms in alleyways, some of them moving sluggishly, others never to move again. The grim reminders of ones own impermanence is apart of every day life these days.

Alastor ladles broth into a ceramic bowl, placing it on a tray with a glass of water to serve to his impromptu guest. Let it never be said he’d forgotten his southern hospitality, no sir! The soup is the best of a, frankly, meager situation; The church’s budget as well as his own oath of poverty didn’t really allow him to spend on much more than the bare essentials, heavily relying on donations from the devout to help keep it alive month to month. 

Luckily his repertoire within the kitchen was enough that he managed to whip up a simple but delicious hot broth with nothing more than left over chicken bones, vegetables, water and seasonings. 

Lifting the tray, Alastor carefully makes his way from the rectory kitchenette towards the bed room where he’d put up his surprise guest. The blonde haired fellow, he was both quite relieved and surprised when he’d discovered it, had been having a restless sleep since he was found on the church’s door step. The brunette flushes slightly remembering how it took him nearly ten minutes to work up the courage to lift the man’s shirt only to see a flat very masculine chest. The poor soul was soaked through when he’d managed to get him inside and had to divest him of his ‘garments’ quickly before he caught his death. The man feels his own grip imperceptibly tightening on the tray unintentionally.

He’s under no illusion what occupation the young man holds, He’s lived in this city almost four years after the turn of the decade now; It’s amazing what people will admit to on a Saturday or Sunday morning in a dark box. 

But it’s not his place to pass judgment on them nor his guest, He understood that sin was a normal thing that all people of varying shapes and sizes have to deal with. It’s not like he has any room to judge their vices.

Blue eyes open to an unfamiliar room, an unfamiliar quiet, unfamiliar sheets. His body aches and he feels like his brain has been through a meat grinder. He tries to move, lifting the blanket from his form slightly before a bite of cold across his naked chest makes him drop it back down with a startled gasp followed by a cough. 

With a shiver he takes stock of his body, slowly coming to full awareness. 

He blearily looks around the sparse room; White walls, wooden wardrobe and floors, a simple chair next to a bed side desk and a burnt out candle. The window is covered by transparent white drapes that allow the light of the day to fill the room naturally but not for anyone to see the interior of the room.

He doesn’t remember going home with anyone else last night, but this sure isn’t his home. In fact he’s having a hard time recalling the previous night at all. However what he is aware of is he is most definitely bare as the day he was born beneath the blanket he has over him. The man rises slowly, his blanket dropping to expose skin to cold air, causing a shudder to run through his body. Looking around, Angel spots some folded clothing on the side drawer, clearly set out for him to dress in.

Angel tries to shift out of the bed, to a standing position but as he’s attempting to stand, the world tilts on its axis. “Shit!” The curse sends a pain coursing across the roof of his dry throat and back.

His hands try to seek purchase on anything on the bed to keep himself balanced but it only serves to pull the sheets along with him.

Even as his mind begins to panic sending signals to stop his descent his body rebels against him, refusing to work, and he cant stop his inevitable drop to the cold wooden floors. He’s on his side now, head swimming with the blanket pooled over his body, struggling to get up. 

The hell is going on? Angel thinks. He’s never felt like this after a night out before. Was he drugged?

Whatever he was probably drugged with has his body shaking all over, mind muddled and dazed. To his relief he’s alone in the room, was the john he was with do it? He’s certainly not about to leave that out of the realm of possibility. 

He’s finding it harder and harder to catch his breath, muscles straining against the weakness there to push himself up. His body is freezing and it’s doing wonders for his mind, keeping him awake and active while he stumbles to push himself back up into an upright position. However it’s also compounding his rising feelings of panic and discomfort. 

“Goddammit”

Managing to get to a stand, he reaches for the desk grabbing the bundle of sparse clothing. They’re like the donated clothes you’d see on the homeless: poor quality, plain, boring on top of being too small as well; But beggars can’t be choosers. 

Angel manages to get the clothes on after a moments struggle, almost falling over twice. There’s spots dancing on the edge of his vision distracting his wildly wandering mind. He’s got this far, now he needs to find a way out. He’s ready for a struggle if he has to, he wasn’t able to be subtle or quiet and drugged or not he wasn’t about to simply roll over and die.

The door is, surprisingly, unlocked when he tries the handle allowing the blonde access to the small hallway leading out of the room. However he freezes upon making eye contact with a shorter man who had been reaching for the knob, wearing an equally surprised deer caught in headlights look on his face. 

He’s not sure what sets him off initially, maybe that his fight or flight responses are firing off or that in his barely lucid state that he’s not really able to make civil choices. Angel ends up blaming the creep entirely for what comes next, because that smile is neither natural nor does it promise good things to the receiver.

It’s almost like an out of body experience, blacking out to the man standing in front of him one moment and coming back to him laid out on his back, the tray he had apparently been carrying thrown aside. He crashes against a wall, moving as quick as he can in his dazed state, stumbling away from the shell shocked man trying to find the entrance. Once more his equilibrium seems to disappear and he’s suddenly on the floor again.

Angel tries to right himself but this time his arms and legs refuse to cooperate, doing nothing but roll around slightly in futility. The man is standing above him now, looking down on his fallen form. He’s saying something, probably nonsense, Angel can’t even make out the words he’s saying from the sound of his own erratic heart beat pumping in his ears.

Even with his vision going the blonde feels a small sense of vindication for knocking the guy flat, No one gets laid out flat and keeps on smiling like that. The blonde never catches the surprised look the brunette gives him when his eyes flutter closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this super late update, I been sick the last couple weeks but I'm feeling better now!  
> As always thank you for the lovely comments and kudos and I hope you all enjoy it.


	4. Chapter 4

An eyebrow arches as the brunette watches the blonde a little ways away. Not a sizable distance by any means but enough that he feels he has a measure of control should the situation go awry again. Alastor can feel the swelling of his cheek, it’s not quite reached the point where it hurts just yet, it’s barely begun to turn red but he knows it’s going to leave quite the bruise with how numb it’s getting.

A mumble breaks him out of his reverie causing him to refocus from his seated position across the room in his chair to the prone form in the bed rousing to alertness. To say he was surprised when he opened the door only to be knocked on his back would be an understatement. 

Not really the best first impression to make on a host. The human side of Alastor may have found some mirth in the situation he thinks but the priest side sits between chastising the boy for striking a priest and pitying him in his obvious state of delirium.

Placing the book he had begun to read while keeping watch over the young man on the nearby drawer, Alastor stands from the chair placing himself in a place where he can easily be seen near the doorway but not close enough that an arm or foot can reach him.

Angel’s first coherent thought was how stuffy it was, and how the rough clothes he had on that irritated his skin were definitely cheap. The room is unfamiliar and the man standing there is definitely unfamiliar but he wasn’t shackled to the bed, not that that means much of anything really, but he probably wasn’t a prisoner given that he still had the freedom to defend himself. The man speaks before he can and it’s quite the voice he’s got there, It’s a rich practiced transatlantic accent you’d hear around the city but there’s a quality to it that catches on the ear like a showman getting your attention with how pleasing it is. “Ah, you’re awake, good good!”

The brunette doesn’t seem inclined to approach him, instead miming visibly to himself with a hand over his chest while the cordial smile becomes softly warm and welcoming. “I’m sure you have some questions, my friend. I’d like to introduce myself first, My name is Alastor.”

“You are currently within a clergy house of the Church of Saint Anthony where I work as a minister” Angel looks at the man dressed in nearly all black, taking in the clerical collar that gives some credibility to his story. 

The blonde relaxes minutely knowing he’s not in danger, his body feels off and he has no real recollection of how he got there. “Ho-” Angel flinches up as dry fire rips across the back of his throat making him gasp, a hand reaching for his neck. He rasps out a plea to the man across the room in a hushed voiced “W-Water”

The brunette hesitates for a half a second but moves forward to where a cup of water and covered bowl sit near the head of the bed. “I suggest you refrain from speaking too much, friend.” The priest brings the cup to grateful blonde, helping him drink greedily to sooth his parched throat. Every swallow both stings and soothes in equal measure until quickly enough the glass is empty.

“You’ve been with fever the last few nights and I can’t imagine you feel all that well.” 

The blonde looks at Alastor at that, clearing his throat still speaking roughly even after wetting his mouth, his Italian American accent coming through clearer now “Fever?” The priests face turns sympathetic while he puts down the cup, nodding to his bed ridden form.

“Yes indeed, You turned up on the church door step five days ago during a terrible blizzard and have been bed ridden since. Poor soul, you probably don’t remember it at all.” There’s a sudden release of tension in the pastor’s shoulders that goes by unnoticed as Angel tries to process the information he’s been given.

“I don’t… I don’t remember.” He really doesn't remember it at all, he’s coming up blank trying his hardest to remember what he was doing but there’s only snippets on the edges of his mind small recollections that seem more and more like fever dreams. “Well, we can address that later. I have some soup here for you to help warm you right up”

The priests reaches for him, assisting him in sitting up with his back against the headboard before a tray with a ceramic bowl is set before him, spoon neatly placed to the side. The lid is lifted and steam rises out of the bowl along with the tantalizing scent of rich broth and vegetables that makes his stomach groan loudly in sudden hunger. 

Angel’s already salivating, awkwardly caught between immediately digging in and thanking this man of god whom he hardly knows for probably saving his life by the sounds of it. 

The priest takes the choice out of his hands as he busies himself with pouring water from a nearby pitcher into the cup and placing it on the desk drawer before turning away back to where an empty chair sat across from him, taking up a book sitting on the drawer before making a bid to leave the room. 

“I have some duties to attend to but I will be back shortly afterwards to pick up the dishes, please do try to get some more rest, my good fellow.”

“Angel” Already halfway out the door the brunette pauses and looks back at the blonde who’s looking at him quietly. “Beg pardon?”

“The name’s Angel” Alastor considers this, smile widening, and nods. “Angel then. Please eat and do get some rest, You’re still recovering after all” Alastor doesn’t wait for acknowledgment as he closes the door behind him leaving the young man to the quiet of his solitude. 

Angel’s still processing when the silence is broken by the loud squeal of his stomach.

Looking at the soup set before him it looked a lot different than anything he’d been feeding himself since he came to the city, mostly subsisting off of Italian foods on the go like pizza and bread with generous amounts of olive oil. 

Those quick things had their charm in the initial months of his newly found freedom but as time went on they became more of a means to survive than a dish to actually enjoy thoroughly. His clients never treated him to dinner and he was honestly penny pinching too much to really get a full on meal to spoil himself with. 

For one it looked homemade, The soup was richly brown and heavily spiced; chunks of chicken, carrots, onions, garlic, celery and rice made up most of it, making almost a porridge. The smell was driving him crazy as he picked up the spoon, scooping a small amount and bringing it to his mouth. 

All it took was one bite and Angel’s mind melted an unintentional moan of pleasure reverberating through the small room. Had he been more in the state of mind of being self aware he probably would have felt embarrassment but as it was he was just more hungry and took another spoonful into his mouth, letting out another groan as the taste hit him again.

Was he being dramatic? Of course, but it was warranted. It was unlike any dish he’d been served yet, deeply rich and exotic with herbs he doesn’t think he’d ever tasted before. His opinion on pastor was rising up in leaps and bounds as the seconds ticked forward and the bowled seemed to empty. The man seemed to be a pinnacle of virtue; He was kind, compassionate, easy on the eyes and he even knew how to cook. 

Why if the man wasn’t a holy man Angel would have probably offered him a “reward”, Hell he may offer it anyways, ask for absolution later.

He’s also got the kinda voice he could listen to all day, Angel thinks. It’s almost fitting such a man would be sworn to God above all else and preach His word. A small part of his heart thinks it’s a little unfair as well that, apparently, all the good men out there are either straight or priests.

Unbeknownst to the Angel, the object of which his current thoughts resided stood just outside the room, stock still, not having budged and inch since he closed the door separating the two from view. His shoulders are tense eyes wide in shock at what he can only describe as obscene sounds coming from the room behind him. 

There’s a lull in the moans and Alastor finally breaks free of his stupefaction, briskly walking away from the door with a flush in his face. He isn’t about to go about snooping to see what the other man was up to, in a clergy house no less, no sir. He hadn’t wanted to even know the other’s name, thinking it was best he didn’t get too familiar with a man who surely wouldn’t stay too long.

He’s not a queer, heavens no, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt a passionate thought like that for a woman before, let alone a man. However he has felt passion of the mind before, He’s been warding it away for years, burying himself deep in scripture as to abstain from actions that could result from such things. 

Being in such close proximity, putting his hands on him in those short moments, coming close enough that he could see the pores of the man, the softness of his cheeks, the slight curve of his nose, those thin but still plump lips, Those striking blue eyes that seemed burning with the will to live no matter the situation; It opened a hole in the pit of his stomach, awoke a heat in the center of his chest that had fallen dormant for years. 

Alastor remembers the soft heated skin under his palm, wet eyes looking at him blindly in the night. The expanse of naked pale flesh peaking out beneath threadbare clothes, lain out beneath him, a defiant gaze daring him to move. Whispered words in the dark that stoke the hunger, dazed words in the hall that see through his facade. It makes his fingers itch.

It’s a test he thinks, it must be a test of his resolve put before him by the Lord to resist his temptations. The irony of the boy’s name wasn’t lost on him when he’d heard it. There’s one more loud moan that reaches Alastor’s ears causing the hairs at the back of his neck to stand on end. “Angel” indeed! 

An hour or so later Alastor knocks on the door to his guest’s room, opening the door when there’s no answer. The hope that the young man had left of his own accord is dashed when he sees that he’s just asleep. The brunette appraises the sleeping young man and the empty dish next to the bed on top of the tray sitting on the floor, nodding approvingly when he notes there’s not a grain of rice left in the bowl.

He tries to make as little ruckus as possible, walking over as silently as he can, reaching down to grab the tray with the dishes near the sleeping man. “That looks like it’ll definitely bruise father.” 

When suddenly a voice near him causes his heart to leap to his throat.

“Did you get into a scuffle while you were out.” Alastor’s eyes shoot up to deep blues looking back at him, though not in the eye, they’re more trained on the spot on his cheek that’s been rapidly reddening throughout the day. He’s had a few of his own flock come after mass asking about it, concerned some uncouth ne’er-do-well’s have been harassing him. 

It was a touching sentiment as he understands it, and if he could feel it he likes to think he would probably be overcome with some kind of emotion because of their possible heartfelt concern instead of dismissing their questions nonchalantly with a lesson and word from the good book. Strangely that same concern coming from the perpetrator, himself, gives Alastor the sudden urge to laugh hysterically at the notion.

None of that pent up energy filters through however, Instead the smile twitches slightly as his eyebrows shift into something closer to sheepish, bordering on embarrassed. His voice becomes a joking lilt on mental command, practiced in changing his tone to deliver both show stoppers and bad news in the same breath in his hay day. 

“Oh this? No no no, An unfortunate accident really...” 

Alastor considers leaving it at that but the way the younger man is looking at him all concerned, he wonders how easy it is to change that expression into something closer to a look he’d appreciate more.

“I applaud you however, You have quite the strong left hook I have to say, dear boy”

It’s an unsubtle nudge, a jab one would make among friends, but its effect is near immediate when he sees the blondes pretty face morph from concern to scrutinizing, to shock and panic. How lively! How lovely! His fingers twitch at his sides, until he consciously moves his hands behind his back from view so they can clasp each other there.

“Wait, You mean...”

A laugh bubbles up unintentionally and Alastor is able to quash it down as a single “Ha!” manages to escape his tightly coiled control. The brunette plays it off as intentional looking down at the blonde jovially.

“Don’t fret my dear fellow, I did say it was an accident, I don’t hold it against you”

He does, He very much does. He near eviscerated the poor young man in the hallway when it happened but what the young man doesn’t know probably won’t come back to bite the pious man in the rear. Angel’s expression shifts again a moment later and it’s decidedly not a look Alastor appreciate as much as the previous expressions. “I don’t even remember it happening” He’s looking down now at his hands, brow furrowed.

Contrite, that’s the word, For some reason that particular expression sours his enjoyment. Alastor places a hand on the lad’s shoulder, prompting him to look up. He gives Angel what he assumed counted for an award winning smile.

“Not to worry, I assume it’s safe to say you weren’t yourself at the time.”

There’s no change to Angel’s face, if anything the expression’s become more pronounced. The look causes what little mirth he was feeling to dry up instantly and he’s not sure why but he wants to make an effort to stop it. 

It really doesn’t make sense for him to want to. 

So he doesn’t, it’s all uncharted territory to him, and instead of addressing it all he can really do is make an awkward excuse of attending to the dishes and leaving the young man to his thoughts, The brunette pretends he doesn’t see the blonde reach out, words of what he assumes are apologies on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the very delayed chapter, Holiday complications and all that.  
> Happy Belated Christmas and Happy New Years to everyone.  
> Hopefully I'll be able to come out consistently weekly now that it's all over.  
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it!


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